DAVID 

AND 

BATHSHEBA 

BAIMliRUCE  MNSOLVING 


I 


GIFT  or 
Author 


^.ULXA.       A      N^  V  ^^"-^  ^  VA 


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DAVID  AND  BATH-SHEBA 


By  the  same  author 

Depths  and  Shallows,  $1.50 

The  Norman,  Remington  Co. 


DAVID   AND   BATH-SHEBA 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 
SALLY  BRUCE  KINSOLVING 


BALTIMORE 

THE  NORMAN,  REMINGTON  COMPANY 

1922 


Copyrighted,  1922,  by 
THE  NORMAN,  REMINGTON  CO. 


Published  October  1922 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America  at  the  Press  of  G.  A,  PETERS  CO. 


/  wish  to  thank  the  editors  of  Poetry, 
The  Reviewer,  The  New  York  Sun, 
and  The  Baltimore  American  for  their 
permission  to  include  in  this  volume 
the  verse  which  has  already  appeared 
in  those  publications, 

S.  B.  K, 


To 

A.  B.  K. 

^Who  shall  end  my  dream  s  confusion} 
Life  is  a  loom  weaving  illusion,  .  .  .  ' 


CONTENTS 

PART  I.    DAVID  AND  BATH-SHEBA  3 

PART  II.    THREADS  OF  GOSSAMER 

Adventure 25 

Once 26 

The  Crossways 27 

Tapestry      28 

Truth 29 

Color 30 

If  You  Should  Die 31 

"A  Chartered  Borrower" 32 

As  The  Wind 33 

A  Word       34 

Plaint 35 

If  I  Could  Know 36 

Heart-Break 37 

Chalices 38 

December  Night 39 

Snow 40 

When  You  Go  Away 41 

Planets 42 

Lamplight 43 

Silence      44 

Beauty  Walks  Abroad 45 

Wounded 46 

The  Road 47 

Unrest      48 

Flood-Tide 49 

Winter  Twilight 51 


Anguish 52 

Unheard 53 

Loneliness 54 

February      55 

You  and  I 57 

When  Spring  Returns 58 

Scourge 59 

Contrast 60 

My  Thought 61 

A  Forest 62 

Mist     63 

Summer  Stars 64 

Do  You  Wonder 65 

Forgiven 66 

Dominoes 67 

Prelude 68 

What  Is  Time 69 

Wild-Geese 70 

A  Closed  Book 71 

March  Wind 72 

At  Times 73 

DaflFodils 74 

Wizardry 75 

The  Call 76 

April 

I— Pursuit 77 

II— After  Rain 77 

III— Purple 79 

IV— I  Have  Not  Lost  You 79 

Spring  Voices 80 

Words  Are  Too  Tattered 82 

Search 83 

Giving 84 


Ghosts 85 

Mirrors 86 

The  Sea 

I — Downs 90 

II — Foreboding 90 

III— Like  Ships 91 

IV— Rhythm 91 

V— A  Moment 91 

VI— Mooring 92 

VII— The  Beach 92 

VIII— Island  Fog 93 

Sonnets 

I 96 

II 96 

III 97 

IV 97 

A  Valley 99 

Summer   Night 100 

What  Is  Spring 101 

Aspiration 103 

Thorns      104 


PART    I 

David  and  Bath-Sheba 


DAVID  AND  BATH-SHEBA 

DRAMATIS  PERSONAE 

DAVID,  King  of  Israel  and  Judah, 

JOAB,  Captain  of  the  Host, 

URIAH,  the  Hittite.  •,.•  !*•:  i 

NATHAN,  the  Prophet.  f'  /;,  •     ; 

BATH-SHEBA,  the  wife  of  Uriah. 

Soldiers,  Messengers,  Servants. 

DAVID  AND  BATH-SHEBA. 
PROLOGUE 

Joab  stands  talking  with  a  soldier. 

Joab 

Ah,  wherefore  does  the  King  now  tarry.  .  .  . 
He  has  not  deigned  to  enter  his  council  cham- 
ber, 
Although  his  captains  are  still  there  assembled 
In  order  to  devise  a  plan  to  check 
The  enemies  of  Israel  and  Judah. 

Soldier 

I  do  not  know,  my  lord,  where  we  may  find  him. 
Three  dawns  have  spent  their  fires  and  worn  to 

evening. 
And  yet  we  have  not  seen  him.  .  .  . 

3 


Joab  (gazing  tensely  at  the  speaker) 

And  do  you  not  suspect  that  some  strange  fever 
Has  attacked  his  brain  to  cause  him  to  forget 
The  danger  that  assails  us? 

Soldier 

Again 
My  lord,  I  do  not  know,  but  I  have  seen 
At  times  a  distant  look  within  his  eyes 
Like  that  the  early  morning  oft  bestows 
Upon  the  sea,  and  though  it  is  apart 
From  my  familiar  wont  at  any  hour 
To  spy  upon  his  Majesty,  the  King, 
While    keeping    watch    alone,    I    found    him 

troubled 
In  his  sleep  and  calling  more  than  once 
Upon  the  name  Bath-sheba. 

Joab  {looking  up  in  a  startled  manner) 

Pray  tell  me 
Who  is  she  ? 

Soldier 

The  fair  young  wife,  my  lord. 
Of  Uriah,  the  Hittite. 

Joab 

I  know  her  not, 
And  therefore  bid  you  to  impart  to  me 
All  knowledge  you  may  have  of  her. 


Soldier 

Her  father 
Gave  her  hand  in  marriage  to  Uriah, 
According  to  the  habit  of  our  land, 
Ere  she  beheld  him;  and  I  attended 
Once  of  late  upon  my  lord  the  King 
When  first  he  sat  at  supper  with  Uriah — 
And  as  within  the  silent,  hushed  blue  night, 
When  suddenly  appearing  over  Hermon, 
The  full-moon  rises  in  her  majesty — 
There,  with  veil  thrown  back,  in  pallid  beauty 
Stood  Bath-sheba.  ...     I  saw  the  King 
Start  .    .    .   like  a  man  upon  the  watch 
When  some  strange  light  breaks  forth 
Upon  his  vision.     His  eyes  sought  hers 
And  when  they  met,  two  streams,  I  knew. 
Were  lost  within  each  other.     She  brought  him 
Meat  and  drink,  and  though  he  had  not  broken 
Fast  since  morning,  he  scarcely  seemed 
To  see  that  food  was  set  before  him, 
But  looked  like  one  within  a  dream.  .  .  . 

Joab 

Ay  then, 
Though  not  according  to  the  way  I  thought. 
It  is  a  fever  that  assails  his  mind. 
It  is  a  subtle  madness  seizing  upon  life 
That  causes  one  to  forget  all  else — 
Duty — even  God  Himself.     It  is  a  mist 
Like    that    which    creeps    along    the    purling 
streams 


Through  greening  meadows  in  the  early  spring 
When  willow  boughs  are  tinged  with  tawny  gold, 
While  through  the  low  and  overhanging  clouds 
The  sun  bursts  forth  with  soft  enthralling  ra- 
diance. 
It  is  the  stir  within  the  pulse  behind  all  life — 
Its  essence  and  its  poetry.  .  .  . 
And  yet  at  times  with  wild  unrest  it  shakes 
The  sure  foundations  of  our  being,  and  seethes 
With  strange  conflicting  currents  in  the  blood. 
If  such  a  madness  has  beset  the  King, 
It  is  for  me  to  plan  the  downfall  of  his  enemies. 
Then  let  us  be  about  our  duty.  .  .  . 
The  King  will  tarry  at  Jerusalem. 

[The  curtain  rises  as  they  leave  the  stage. 
1  he  scene  is  a  roof  of  the  King's  palace^  furnished 
only  with  a  couch  and  arms  nearby.     David, 
the  King,  reclines  upon  the  couch.     The  time 
is  near  midnight. 

David  {slowly  rising) 

I  know  not  why  this  tumult  ploughs  my  brain. 
My  limbs  are  weary,  yet  I  cannot  sleep. 
So  new  is  night  she  hardly  has  had  time 
To  cool  the  parched  earth.     Could  I  but  lose 
Myself  in  dreams,  then  I  might  wake  at  dawn 
To  stem  the  tide  of  battle  with  my  men. 

[He  sinks  back  upon  his  couch,  but  rises 
again  almost  immediately. 
I  barely  lay  my  head  upon  my  couch 
Ere  I  behold  a  vision  of  such  beauty 


I  fain  would  give  the  sleep  of  all  the  years 
For  but  one  kiss  upon  her  scarlet  lips — 
If  only  I  might  crush  her  body's  self 
Within  my  hungry  arms.  .  .  . 

[He  walks  to  and  fro  with  head  bowed. 

Oh  God,  am  I 
Thy  servant  David,  who  can  forget 
Thy  mercy  and  Thy  loving  kindness,  and  all 
The  wealth  and  power  Thou  hast  given  me — 
Or  am  I  now  no  longer  my  true  self? 
Two  wills  contend  within  me  for  mastery. 
Like  wrestlers  on  a  plain.  .  .  .     Wives 
Thou  hast  bestowed  upon  me,  and  yet 
They  have  no  mind  wherewith  to  meet  my  own; 
And  when  I  think  upon  Bath-sheba, 
I  see  the  dawn  lifting  her  beauty  from  behind 
The  hills  that  stand  about  Jerusalem, 
Spreading  her  radiance  over  all  the  sea. 
And  bringing  in  the  splendor  of  new  day.  .  .  . 
For  when  her  eyes  meet  mine,  they  sink  so  deep 
Into  my  soul  they  find  my  inmost  self. 
And  raise  me  up  to  heaven's  gate  with  ecstasy. 
And  am  I  not  the  King  of  Thine  appointing. 
With  power  to  fulfill  my  will?    Once 
I  was  a  shepherd-lad,  content  with  morning 
And  all  the  freshness  of  the  dew-wet  day — 
Watching  my  sheep  beside   the  clean   bright 

streams 
And  listening  to  the  song  of  birds.  .  .  . 
Weary  at  noon  beneath  the  sun's  hot  rays. 
Yet  satisfied  to  slake  my  thirst  in  water, 


And  to  appease  my  hunger  with  coarse  bread; 
Heavy  with  slumber  when  the  darkest  night 
Rested  upon  the  hills,  and  startled  only 
Into  wakefulness  at  some  unearthly  cry 
Of    bold    attacking    beast.     From    this    con- 
tentment 
Thou  hast  taken  me  to  wear  a  crown, 
And  surely  Thou  wouldst  not  deny  me  more 
Than  all  my  kingdom  and  my  wealth — ay,  more 
Than  life  itself.     It  is  a  part,  Bath-sheba, 
Of  fate's  malicious  trickery  to  have  given  you 
To  another,  but  you  are  mine  alone. 
And  I  am  now  impelled  to  claim  you. 

[He  ascends  a  turret  to  look  toward  the 
house  of  Uriah,  the  Hittite,  and  at  that 
moment  the  moon  escaping  from  a 
cloud  reveals  Bath-sheba  upon  the  roof 
of  her  husband's  house. 

The  moon  withdraws  the  curtains  of  the  night. 

And  with  a  sudden  burst  of  glory 

Enables  me  to  see  you  from  afar, 

Bath-sheba.  .  .  . 

\He  hastens  forth  eagerly. 
[The  stage  is  darkened  for  a  few  moments 
until  there  appears  as  the  second  scene 
the  roof  of  the  house  of  Uriah.  White 
oleanders  are  growing  in  large  pots 
near  a  couch  where  Bath-Sheba  is 
reclining,  attired  in  filmy  drapery  with 
a  violet  robe  lightly  thrown  over  her. 
Beyond  stands  a  marble  basin  carved 


like  a  lotus  flower  with  an  ewer  resting 
beside  it.  The  time  is  shortly  after 
midnight. 

Bath-sheha  {slowly  rising  from  her  couch^  with  her 

hands  behind  her  head) 
It  is  so  warm  tonight  I  cannot  sleep, 
And  while  the  moon  is  veiling  the  watchful  stars 
With  silver,  I'll  dip  into  the  whiteness 
Of  my  marble  bath.  .  .  . 

[She  walks  forward  and  gazes  dreamily  out 
into  the  night. 

Why  should  I  think 
Upon  the  King — treasuring  each  look  and  word 
That  he  has  given  me,  finding  delight 
In  each  one  separately,  yet  counting  all 
Together  like  rubies  in  a  necklace 
Until  they  press  too  heavily  upon  me. 
Burning  me  with  their  passion  and  their  color. 
Since  that  night  we  met,  in  thought  I  dwell 
Upon    him    every    moment.   .   .   .     Then    it 

seemed 
As  if  some  strange  enthralling  power  had  seized 

me. 
And  had  brought  me  face  to  face  with  all 
That  I  had  been  or  ever  might  become, 
For  in  his  eyes  I  knew  that  I  had  found 
My  end  of  being.  ...     I  am  possessed 
With  thought  of  him  alone  who  is  my  life. 
Has  he  yet  gone  to  battle,  and  does  he  tent 
Under  these  midnight  skies  that  are  so  wan 


With  all  the  lovely  palor  of  the  moon? 

Can  it  be  tomorrow's  sun  will  stain  the  earth 

With  blood? 

[She  shudders. 

My  God — not  his,  not  his ! 
[She   approaches   the   marble   basin    and 
pours  water  into  it. 
Listen  to  the  cooling  water  trickling 
As  from  a  stream  on  Lebanon. 
[She  partly  unrobes. 

How  white 
And  fair  my  limbs  are  in  the  moonlight. 

[Startled  at  the  noise  oj footsteps  she  turns 
suddenly. 
What  sound  is  that  I  hear ! 

{in  terror) 
Behold  the  shadow 
Of  a  man ! 

[She  seizes  the  violet  robe. 
The  voice  oj  David  Bath-sheba! 

Bath-sheba  {with  head  thrown  back  and  eyes  half- 
closed^  breathing  heavily) 

Ah,  what  music 
Stole  upon  the  night  to  call  my  name.  .  .  . 
[The  King  draws  near. 

David 

It  is  I — the  King. 

[He  takes  Bath-sheba' s  hands  into  his. 
Bath-sheba  {anxiously) 

10 


My  lord — and  wherefore 
Have  you  come? 

David  {holding  her  at  arms  length) 

To  admire  your  loveliness.  Do  you 
Not  know  that  all  my  heart  goes  out  in  craving 
To  possess  you  ?     You  are  my  own,  Bath-sheba. 

Bath-sheba  {breaking  away  Jrorn  him  and  turning 
her  head  aside) 
My  lord,  do  you  forget  my  husband? 

David  {bending  over  her  passionately) 
He  is  but  my  servant,  and  you  are  mine 
At  will. 

Bath-sheba 

Yet  he  is  good  and  kind  to  me. 
My  lord,  and  I  have  loved  to  serve  him, 
As  he  to  serve  the  King. 

David 

And  have  you  then 
No  love  for  me? 

Bath-sheba  {with  a  sob) 

My  lord.  .  .  . 

David 

Do  you  not  see 
That  far  up  in  the  heavens  the  moon 

11 


Has  cast  aside  the  mantle  that  protected  her. 
And  reigns  effulgent  over  all  the  night? 
Henceforward  shall  you  share  my  throne,  my 

life. 
Bath-sheba,  do  you  not  love  me? 

[He  draws  her  closer  to  him.  She  trembles 
in  his  arms^  closing  her  eyes  and  resting 
her  head  upon  his  breast. 

Bath-sheba 

It  is  heaven  to  rest  here.  .  .  . 
I  am  so  much  alone,  and  now  the  music 
Of  your  voice  steals  over  all  my  being. 
It  is  so  strange,  so  new — it  seems  to  me 
As  if  I  were  another.     Your  breath 
Upon  my  cheek  is  like  the  incense  of  the  night. 
And  in  your  arms  my  heart  finds  peace  in- 
effable. 

David 

Do  you  not  call  this  love? 

Bath-sheba  I  know  not  love — 

I  only  know  that  I  would  have  this  moment 
Last  forever. 

T>amd 

Call  it  by  what  name  you  will. 
But  when  two  souls  are  lost  within  each  other. 
High-pinnacled  upon  a  giddy  height  of  time, 

12 


It  is  such  love  as  poets  dream  of  endlessly 
From  age  to  age. 

[They  stand  within  a  long  embrace. 

The  stage  is  again  darkened^  and  then  the  third  scene ^ 
an  apartment  in  the  Kings  palace^  appears. 
An  interval  of  several  months  has  elapsed  since 
the  last  scene.  David ^  the  King,  is  sitting  upon 
his  throne  while  a  messenger  kneels  before  him. 
The  light  of  sunset  falls  across  the  floor. 

David  {waving  his  hand) 

Depart — I  wish  to  be  alone.  .  .  . 

[The  messenger  bows  and  leaves  the  room. 
The  King  bends  forward,  letting  his 
head  fall  into  his  hands. 
With  child — Bath-sheba  now  with  child — my 
own.  .  .  . 

[He  looks  up  suddenly. 
But  what  of  Uriah  since  I  have  summoned  him 
From  war.f* 

[He  rises  and  rings,  whereupon  a  mes- 
senger enters  and  makes  obeisance. 

David 

Bring  Uriah,  the  Hittite, 
Into  my  presence. 

[The  messenger  bows  and  departs. 

If  I  might  only 
Rid  my  soul  of  one  I  hate.  .  .  . 
[  Uriah  enters  the  room. 

13 


Uriah  {bowing  before  the  King) 
My  lord  the  King.  ... 

David  Arise  and  give 

The  news  you  bring.     How  fares  my  captain, 

Joab, 
And    the    people?    And    does    the    war    yet 
prosper? 

Uriah 
So  thick  and  fast  your  questions  come,  my  lord, 
They  are  like  arrows  from  our  enemies. 
Our  captain,  Joab,  still  commands  the  battle, 
And  though  the  lurid  sun  leaves  nightly  a  trail 
Of  blood  upon  the  field,  we  yet  outnumber 
All  our  enemies.     The  war  still  prospers. 

David 
Oh,  may  the  God  of  battles  now  be  praised 
For  tidings  such  as  these — and  yet,  Uriah, 
I  know  that  you  must  be  all  worn  and  weary 
With  the  fray.     I  do  beseech  you 
To  go  to  your  own  house  to  seek  refreshment 
And  the  subtle  peace  that  can  subdue 
All  warriors  at  the  end  of  day.     I  bade 
My    servants    follow    you    with    snow-cooled 

wine — 
And  food — the  best  my  palace  offers. 

Uriah  O  King, 

I  thank  you,  but  I  would  rather  far 
Return  unto  the  field  of  battle.  .  .  . 

14 


David  {in  angry  amazement) 

Have  you  forgot  your  wife  .  .  .  and  all 
The  sweet  allurement  of  your  home? 

Uriah  I  have, 

My  lord,  for  while  the  Ark  and  Israel 
And  Judah  abide  in  tents  and  are  encamped 
Within  the  open  fields — even  your  captain, 
Joab,  and  all  the  servants  of  my  lord — 
Shall  I  alone  go  into  my  house,  and  eat 
And  drink,  and  take  my  wife  into  my  arms? 
As  we  both  live,  I  will  not  do  this  thing. 

David  {bowing  his  head  for  a  moment,  recovers  him- 
self looking  up  suddenly) 
Then  tarry  here  tomorrow  and  the  next  day. 
You  may  at  least  refresh  your  limbs  with  meat 
And  drink,  and  rest  your  soul  from  battle.  .  .  . 
{addressing  his  servants) 
Seek  food  and  wine,  and  give  this  man 
The  portion  due  a  giant. 

[The  servants  bow  assent  before  the  King. 
Uriah  salutes  him,  and  withdraws,  fol- 
lowed by  the  two  servants. 

David  {alone  and  musing) 

I  wear  a  crown,  Uriah,  while  you  were  born 
To  serve  me — and  yet  you  tower  so  far  above 

me 
In  lonely  majesty  of  spirit,  I  count  myself 
As  but  a  stone  upon  the  plain  of  Jordan, 

15 


And  you,  the  crest  of  Mount  Moriah's  height. 
Yet  ruled  by  some  strange  force.  .  . 
Older  than  tides  or  even  barren  hills, 
And  more  mysterious.  .  .     I  am  compelled 
To  claim  you  as  my  own,  Bath-sheba. 
I  must,  therefore,  devise  some  means  to  rid  me 
Of  this  man  who  stands  between  us,  and  checks 
My  royal  will.     Perchance  the  fate  of  battle 
May  end  my  problem.     I  will  write 
To  Joab,  my  trusted  captain,  to  place 
Uriah  in  the  thick  of  fight,  for  surely 
Now  he  is  indifferent  to  all  else. 
And  thus  at  least  may  end  his  life  with  glory. 
[He  rises,  seizes  parchment  and  pen,  and 
begins  to  write, 

David  {reading  aloud) 

Unto  Joab,  the  Captain  of  the  Hosts 

Of  Israel  and  Judah:  Set  Uriah 

In  the  forefront  of  the  hottest  battle. 

And  retire  from  him,  that  he  may  soon  be 

smitten, 
And  then  die. 

\He  bows  his  head. 

Can  I,  the  King,  even  David — 
Forget  so  soon  all  that  I  owe  my  people  .^ 
Can  this  be  murder  ? 
{He  shudders. 

Unto  what  ends 
Does  passion  drive  her  slaves,  despite  the  crowns 
They  wear  in  their  mock  majesty! 

16 


The  stage  is  darkened  once  more,  and  then  the  same 
apartment  in  the  King*s  palace  after  a  week's 
interval  appears  as  the  fourth  scene.  The  King 
again  is  sitting  upon  his  throne.  A  servant  is 
in  attendance  upon  him.     The  time  is  noon. 

David  {anxiously) 
And  have  you  not  yet  seen  the  smallest  speck 
Upon  the  dim  horizon's  line  betokening 
A  message  from  the  war? 

Servant 

Not  I,  my  lord — 
But  hark — I  think  that  I  now  hear  the  cheering 
Of  men's  voices. 

[A  messenger  enters,  falling  breathlessly 
before  the  King. 

David  {rising) 

What  news? 

Messenger 

For  three  long  days. 
My  lord,  the  battle  has  raged  furiously. 
So  close  we  were  upon  the  city's  wall, 
A  woman  let  a  mill-stone  fall  upon  Abimelech, 
The  son   of  Jerubbesheth,   and  crushed  him 

there 
To  earth  as  if  he  were  an  ant.  .  .  . 
Uriah  too  is  dead. 

17 


David  {bending forward  eagerly) 

Dead!     Ah,  say  to  Joab, 
"Let  not  this  thing  displease  you,  for  the  sword 
Devours  one  as  well  as  another,  but  make 
Your  battle  still  more  strong  against  the  city, 
And  overthrow  it,"  and  thus  encourage  him. 
And  now  depart,  and  send  to  me  the  wife 
Of  this  dead  chieftain  that  I  may  break 
These  tidings  unto  her.  .  .  . 
\The  King  is  left  alone. 

David  {musing) 

My  dreams  are  all  fulfilled,  Uriah  slain. 
His  wife  my  own,  and  now,  O  God,  to  crown 
My  high  ambition.  Thou  mayest  send  to  us 
A  son.     A  King's  will  is  supreme — 
Yet  were  I  but  a  shepherd-lad  again, 
With  Bath-sheba,  my  cup  of  joy 
Would  still  be  running  over.  .  .  . 

\He  walks  slowly  up  and  down  with  head 
bowed. 
For  then  we  would  abide  in  fields  of  night. 
And  wonder  at  the  wisdom  of  the  stars. 
And   when   your  beauty  stirred  with   dawn's 

first  light, 
I  should  forget  the  shadows  and  the  scars 
That  life  and  battle  give,  which  now  despite 
My  happiness,  unwillingly  I  remember. 
Then  we  would  roam  in  dewy  meadows,  white 
With  blossoming,  in  gaiety  together. 
Seeking   the   food   that   heaven   alone   should 
send — 

18 


Fresh  pomegranates  and  the  grape's  unvintaged 

wine — 
Until  the  passionate  warm  day  would  end 
In  golden  vapor  with  the  sun's  decline. 
And  melt  in  filmy  maze  of  pale  moonbeams, 
When  we  should  find  the  day's  joy  in  our  dreams. 

[T/ie  King  starts. 
But  hark,  here  comes  Bath-sheba. 

[Bath-sheba  enters^  followed  by  a  servant. 
The  King  motions  to  the  latter  to  depart, 

Bath-sheba  {bowing  before  the  King) 

My  Lord, 
The  King.  .  .  . 

David  {gently) 

I  have  news  to  shock  you. 
Arm  yourself  to  bear  it. 

Bath-sheba  {looking  up  anxiously) 

My  lord.  .  .  . 

David 

Uriah,  your  husband,  has  fallen 
In  the  fight. 

Bath-sheba 

Oh,  no,  my  lord.  .  .  . 
It  cannot  be.  .  .  . 

[She  falls  upon  her  knees,  and  buries  her 
head  in  the  cushions  of  the  couch.  The 
King  kneels  beside  her,  bending  over  her. 

19 


Bath-sheba  {^sobbing  violently) 

And  I  unfaithful 
To  him.  ...     In  bitterness  of  soul 
I  now  must  reap  my  sin.     Ah,  had  I  been 
But  true  to  him,  I  might  have  given  myself — 
A  stainless  wife — to  you. 

David 

Do  not  reproach 
Yourself,  Bath-sheba.     You  had  no  will 
Apart  from  mine,  and  you  are  yet  as  pure 
In  my  own  eyes  as  that  fair  snow  that  rests — 
Not  only  in  the  bitter  cold  of  winter. 
But  even  under  a  raging  summer  sun — 
Upon  the  lonely  heights  of  Hermon.  .  .  . 
My    passion    could    not  stain  nor  melt  your 

purity, 
My  love — my  wife.     At  last  you  are  my  own, 
And  now  by  day  and  night,  henceforth,  I  know 
That  I  may  hold  you  in  my  arms  and  press 
Your   lips    to   mine    without    the    thin    black 

shadow 
Of  another's  wrath  to  come  between  us. 
I  love  you  with  such  passion,  the  mountain-bars 
Of  all  the  earth  could  never  part  us. 
Only  death  might  seem  to  separate  us 
For  a  while — one  from  the  other — 
But  on  an  April  night  when  I  should  see 
The  moon  slip  quietly  out  of  her  blackened  robe 
Full-lined  with  silver,  then  I  should  know 
That  from  the  courts  of  heaven  Bath-sheba 
Was  shedding  radiance  over  me.  .  .  . 

20 


Bath-sheba 

Speak  not  of  death,  my  lord — I  cannot  bear  it. 
\He  lifts  her  up  and  takes  her  into  his  arms 

David 

My  own  Bath-sheba.     But  hark — who  dares 
To  come  into  this  chamber. 

{Nathan^  the  Prophet^  enters  making  no 
obeisance  to  the  King.  The  King  re- 
leases Bath-sheba  from  his  embrace. 
She  Jails  upon  the  floor  beside  the  couch 
and  rests  her  head  upon  her  hand  in  a 
listening  attitude. 
David  {with  astonishment) 

Nathan ! 
Is  it  you — and  wherefore  have  you  come? 

Nathan  {sternly) 
As  the  messenger  of  Jehovah,  Lord  of  Lords 
And  King  of  Kings. 

David 

And  the  tidings  that  you  bear? 
[The  King  ascends  his  throne  and  Nathan 
stands  bejore  him. 

Nathan 

There  once  were  two  men  dwelling  in  one  city. 
In  flocks  and  herds  the  one  was  rich,  the  other 
Poor — and  only  had  one  small  ewe  lamb. 
Which  he  had  bought   and  nourished.      And 
then  there  came 

21 


A  traveller  by  that  way,  and  he  who  was  so  rich 
Still  spared  to  take  of  his  own  flock,  and  seized 
The  poor  man's  lamb  to  dress  it  for  the  way- 
farer. 

[The  King  rises  in  anger.  Bath-sheba 
draws  near  to  him. 

David 

As  the  Lord  lives,  the  man  that  did  this  thing 
Shall  surely  die. 

Nathan 

You  are  the  man. 
[David  bows  his  head. 

Nathan 

Why  have  you  so  despised  the  Lord  your  God 
To  do  this  evil  in  his  sight,  for  with  the  sword 
You  know  full  well  that  you  have  killed  Uriah, 
And  have  taken  his  wife  to  be  your  own.  .  .  . 
The  sword,  therefore,  shall  not  depart  from  you, 
Nor  from  your  house.  "For  though  thou  didst 

it  secretly," 
Saith  the  Lord,  "This  thing  I  now  will  do 
Before  all  Israel  and  Judah.'* 

[The  King  kneels  before  the  Prophet. 
Bath'Sheba  holds  out  her  arms  yearn- 
ingly towards  him. 

David 

I  have  sinned  against  the  Lord.  .  ,  . 

22 


Nathan 

The  Lord  has  put  away  your  sin.  .  .  . 
You  shall  not  die,  yet  since  by  your  own  sin 
You  now  have  caused  the  enemies  of  Israel 
To  blaspheme,  your  son  shall  surely  die. 

{Nathan  departs^  while  the  King  falls 
prostrate  burying  his  head  in  his  arms 
upon  the  dais  of  his  throne.  Bath- 
sheba  kneels  beside  him^  and  bends 
helplessly  over  him. 

David 

Against  Thee  only  have  I  sinned, 
And  done  this  evil  in  Thy  sight. 
Have  mercy  upon  me,  O  God 
And  blot  out  my  transgression.  .  .  . 


Curtain. 


23 


PART  II 

Threads  of  Gossamer 


/  have  no  gift  but  song 

To  give  yoUy 

And  it  is  fashioned  Jrail  as  dew 

Upon  some  pale  sweet-scented  flowery 

Or  rain-drops 

Caught  within  an  hour 

In  silver  threads  of  gossamer. 


ADVENTURE 

I  have  been  soaring  upon  the  backs  of  young 

eagles 
Over  high  mountain- tops, 

Looking  down  upon  the  broad,  unknown  reaches 
Of  the  world. 

I  have  been  shattered  and  storm-beaten 
Like  white  petals  of  spent  roses 
After  summer  rain. 

I  have  been  caught  up  and  burned 
In  the  zig-zag  of  forked  lightning 
Against  the  dun  sky. 

I  have  fallen  down  the  night  with  a  meteor, 

And  choking  with  star-dust, 

I  have  been  lost  in  unlimited  space. 

I  have  been  dreaming  at  the  heart  of  a  flower 

When  gold  pollen  fell  into  it 

From  the  gauzy  wings  of  a  bee.  ... 

I  have  been  reading  the  poetry  of  the  young. 


25 


ONCE 

Once  I  would  have  given  you 

With  spendthrift  recklessness 

All  the  strong  red  wine  that  youth  pours  out, 

But  I  have  now 

Only  the  spirit's  garnered  loveliness 

From  springs  and  autumns  that  are  gone, 

And  the  radiant  light 

The  great  white  ship  of  Truth 

Leaves  in  her  wake 

Upon  the  seas  of  life.  .  .  . 

But  youth  has  no  such  gentleness 

As  I  have  to  bestow  upon  you. 

The  airs  of  morning  lack  the  veiling  mist 

That  comes  but  when  the  slanting  sun  has  kissed 

The  purple  hills. 

With  thought  of  self 

Youth  fills  the  fleeting  hours 

And  spills  in  wantonness 

Her  bruised  red  flowers, 

While  I  would  shield  you  from  all  weariness. 

Sending  your  cares  away 

Like  swallows  on  the  wind 

At  end  of  day. 


26 


THE  CROSSWAYS 

I  am  standing  at  the  crossways 
And  looking  down  the  lane; 

Before  me  beckons  pleasure 
But  I  see  her  shadow  pain. 

The  autumn  sun  is  dancing 
Upon  the  crimson  leaves, 

And  I  hear  the  west-wind  calling 
Out  among  the  sheaves. 

I  am  standing  at  the  crossways 
And  looking  down  the  lane — 

Before  me  beckons  pleasure 
But  I  see  her  shadow  pain. 


27 


TAPESTRY 

Like  a  rich  tapestry- 
Days  I  spent  with  you 
Dwell  in  my  memory. 

Caught  in  its  warp  and  woof 
Each  moment  stands  aloof 
Bringing  back  joy  to  me. 

First  of  its  colors  are 

Eyes  that  I  knew 

Were  piercing  me  through  and  through 

With  light  from  afar; 

And  there  are  the  words 
That  tremble  and  start 
Like  tropical  birds 
In  the  flower  of  my  heart; 

And  then  the  clear  full  tone 
Of  your  deep  voice  alone 
Reading  me  poetry. 
Leaving  an  impress  rare 
As  that  in  color  where 
Art  has  burned  beauty.  .  .  . 

Like  a  rich  tapestry 

Days  I  have  spent  with  you 

Dwell  in  my  memory. 


28 


TRUTH 

Can  day  deny  the  sun  on  his  return, 
When  morning  splinters  light  to  silver  on  the  sea, 
Or  night  deny  the  clear-eyed  stars  and  spurn 
Their  age-long  message  of  reality? 


29 


COLOR 

Stretch  out 

Your  wild  impetuous  arms  to  me, 

Autumn, 

And  draw  me 

Into  the  heart  of  your  colors. 

Let  me  swoon 
With  the  stupor 
Of  your  red  vi^ine 
In  my  blood. 

GiVe  me 

The  desperately  sweet  ripe  smell 
Of  your  golden  apples 
Falling  to  the  ground. 

Warm  me 

With  your  throbbing  sunlight. 

And  steep  me  in  mellow  radiance. 

That  I  may  forget 

The  sharp  and  cruel  winds  of  winter 

That  will  soon  sever  my  soul 

From  your  passionate  beauty. 


30 


IF  YOU  SHOULD  DIE 

If  you  should  die  tonight, 

Could  I  take  up  the  threads 

Of  life, 

And  weave  them  into  bright  gay-colored  images, 

Or  should  I  wander  blindly 

As  one  who  treads 

Through  thickly-falling  snow. 

Without  a  light 

To  beckon. 

Or  home  wherein  to  go? 


31 


*'A  CHARTERED  BORROWER" 

A  chartered  borrower  I  would  be 

Of  age-long  beauty  and  of  wizardry: 

The  light  of  Helen's  eyes  that  brought 

Such  woe  to  men,  wrought 

By  the  will  of  Zeus; 

The  call  of  ancient  seas  to  Odysseus; 

Music  that  fell  from  Sappho's  lips 

As  magical  water  drips 

From    moonlit   fountains;    even    the   spell    that 

Cleopatra's 
Turbid  passions  cast  upon  Mark  Antony; 
Love  like  Paola's  and  Francesca's, 
Or  that  for  Abelard  of  Heloise.  ,  .  . 
Sumptuous  fabrics  such  as  these 
Of  imperishable  lore 

I  would  now  weave  with  rich  embroideries 
Out  of  my  own  heart's  endless  store 
Into  recurrent,  haunting  melodies 
Singing  the  restless  beauty  of  your  eyes. 


32 


AS  THE  WIND 

I  think  of  you  as  the  wind 
On  a  March  day 
When  white  clouds  are  racing 
In  giant  play. 

I  think  of  you  as  the  sea, 
Fierce,  unfathomable,  bold; 
Mighty  to  overcome — 
Strong  to  enfold. 


I  think  of  you  as  morning- 
Dazzling  in  purity — white 
As  an  arch-angel's  robe 
In  endless  light.   .    .    . 


33 


A  WORD 

I  would  not  have  you  tell  me 

That  you  love  me — 

But  do  not  be  afraid 

To  send  me  some  quickened  word 

Out  of  your  depth  of  being, 

That  while  not  seeing 

You, 

It  may  beat  against  the  casement  of  my  heart, 

Like  an  ardent  bird 

That  has  suddenly  made  me  start 

In  the  night 

With  the  flutter  of  its  wings 

Beating  against  my  shutter  ere  it  sings 

With  dawn's  first  light. 


34 


PLAINT 

My  heart  is  worn  and  sad  tonight 
To  think  it  must  grow  old, 
For  though  it  quivers  with  delight 
When  April  hesitant  and  white. 
Weaves  daffodils  of  gold — 
Alas,  it  trembles  now  with  fright 
And  shivers  in  the  cold — 
My  heart  is  worn  and  sad  tonight 
To  think  it  must  grow  old. 


35 


IF  I  COULD  KNOW 

If  I  could  know  you  loved  me, 

Would  it  be 

As  if  the  snows  of  yesterday 

Had  cooled  the  airs  of  memory 

And  wrapped  me  in  a  stillness  as  of  morn 

When  winter's  light  is  born  ? 

Or  instead 

Should  I  be  lifted 

As  on  wings  of  storm 

Against  a  summer  sky, 

W^hen  suddenly 

From  underneath  black  cloud 

Flame  bursts  with  proud 

And  passionate  ecstasy — 

If  I  could  know  you  loved  me  ? 


36 


HEART-BREAK 

The  lean  moon  shrouds  the  chill  dead  day. 
The  spent  leaves  lie  on  the  earth's  cold  bed; 
The  laughter  of  summer  has  melted  away, 
And  hope  from  a  woman's  heart  has  fled. 


37 


CHALICES 

I  have  drunk  of  beauty  out  of  many  a  cup.  .  .  . 

I  have  drained  the  strong  new  wine  of  April  to 
the  lees 

When  she  shatters  the  old  bottles  of  old  trees; 

I  have  stained  my  lips  with  purple  from  mid- 
summer seas, 

And  sipped  the  golden  honey  of  sun  and  bloom 
with  bees. 

I  have  quaffed  the  deep  red  splendor  of  October 
noons, 

And  slaked  my  thirst  with  silver  from  thin  har- 
vest moons; 

I    have    been    benumbed    from    winter's   crystal 

chalice 
Held  in  white  forests  by  cup-bearers  clad  in  ice. 

I  have  drunk  of  beauty  out  of  many  a  cup.  .  .  . 


38 


DECEMBER  NIGHT 

O  little  quiet  sheltered  room 
Safe  from  winter's  hostile  gloom, 
Your  shaded  lights  around  me  glow 
Upon  the  books  I  love  and  know — 
On  sculptured  beauty  born  of  Greece, 
On  Dante's  mediaeval  peace, 
On  Botticelli,  Giotto, 
Buonarotti,  Sanzio; 
On  English  lakes  and  college-halls 
With  lace- work  gates  and  stately  walls; 
On  flowered  lanes  in  fragrant  Devon — 
On  church-towers  pointing  up  to  heaven; 
On  fir-tree  from  some  forest  far 
Lighted  with  the  Christmas  star; 
Upon  red-berried  holly  wreath 
And  lily-buds  in  bursting  sheath; 
On  pussy-willows  wont  to  fling 
Their  soft  arms  out  to  welcome  spring; 
On  green  downs  painted  by  the  sea. 
On  pale  sweet  branching  bay-berry; 
On  ferns  from  out  some  woodland  deep 
Where  birds  were  singing  love  to  sleep; 
On  lovely  shadows  of  the  night 
Penciling  in  grey  and  white 
The  century  old  hand-carven  door. 
While  Persian  colors  warm  the  floor — 
You  are  a  place  of  shot  and  gleam. 
Of  silent  thought,  enchanted  dream, 
O  little  quiet  sheltered  room 
Safe  from  winter's  hostile  gloom. 

2>9 


SNOW 

With  delicate  fingers 

The  soft  and  treacherous  snow 

Now  wraps  each  twig  and  leaf  and  stem 

Within  a  pall  of  silence 

And  of  death— 

But  in  my  heart 

There  is  the  joyful  tumult 
Of  ten  thousand  silver  bells 
In  the  music-shaken  trees 
Of  a  summer  dawn. 


40 


WHEN  YOU  GO  AWAY 

When  you  go  away 

Then  I  enter  your  room, 

And  suddenly 

A  faint  and  lingering  scent 

Of  cigarettes 

Stabs  me, 

Like  the  perfume  of  bruised  violets 

In  the  quiet  gloom 

Of  twilight,  and  I  begin  to  look 

Around  me  and  I  see 

A  book 

That  is  open  on  its  face 

In  the  place 

Where  you  laid  it. 

And  I  find  ashes  still  scattered  on  the  floor, 

And  my  heart  beats  faster  when  I  remember 

That  before  you  left 

I  loved  to  kneel  and  brush  them  out  of  the  way, 

Because  I  knew  that  you  had  spilled  them 

And  would  spill  more.  .  .  . 

And  then  I  look  into  the  mirror  until  it  seems 

As  empty  as  a  house  of  dreams, 

Or  the  white-pillowed  bed  where  recently  you  lay, 

And  I  shut  the  door 

Quietly — 

And  go  away. 


41 


PLANETS 

On  windless  nights  the  planets  burn 
Their  message  in  the  sky, 

Without  a  single  star  to  spurn 
Their  lonely  majesty; 

But  I  forbear  then  even  to  trace 
Their  pathway  up  on  high, 

Ashamed  to  look  them  in  the  face — 
So  slight  a  thing  am  I. 


42 


LAMPLIGHT 

Your  voice,  your  lips,  your  eyes 
All  come  before  me  now — 

Ah,  would  that  I  might  rest 
My  hand  upon  your  brow. 

Night  would  not  seem  so  dark 

Nor  day  so  long, 
For  hours  would  beat  to  music    ' 

As  words  to  song; 

And  even  the  lamplit  shadows 
Would  steal  across  my  heart 

As  softly  as  the  south-wind 
Stirring  the  leaves  apart — 

While  words  too  lightly  cadenced 

For  aught  but  poetry 
Would  burn  themselves  forever 

Into  my  memory. 


43 


SILENCE 

Like  snow 

That  is  falling  softly 

Round  a  lonely  house 

At  midnight, 

Your  silence  smothers  me. 

Your  words 

That  I  have  treasured 

Have  grown  tenuous  and  thin 

With  repetition, 

And  are  like  the  pale  uncertain  blue  light 

Of  a  candle 

In  a  darkened  room, 

Where  I  shiver  alone 

In  the  cold. 


44 


BEAUTY  WALKS  ABROAD 

Beauty  walks  abroad  to-night 

Under  the  dark  fir-trees. 
Garmented  with  silvery  white 
Draperies; 

While  with  a  scimitar  of  light 
Cutting  the  clear  blue  sky. 
The  moon  declares  her  infinite 
Majesty.  .  .  . 

But  what  do  I  care  for  the  face  of  night, 

Glittering  and  cold  to  see — 
Would  that  your  own  instead  might 
Bend  over  me. 


45 


WOUNDED 

I  have  stript  my  heart 

In  what  I  have  said, 

And  now  it  is  shrinking 

Like  a  wounded  thing  that*s  fled 

Into  a  quiet  covert 
Of  a  deep  ferny  place, 
Where  shadows  lie  heavily. 
Giving  the  sun  no  space; 

And  where  there  is  silence 
At  noon  or  with  night  falling — 
But  oh,  to  hear  you 
Calling,  calling. 


46 


THE  ROAD 

The  road  I  travel  has  no  ending — 
By  flower  and  thorn  it  winds  its  way; 
I  know  not  whither  it  is  tending, 
And  darkness  soon  must  end  the  day. 

Yet  when  I  see  the  farthest  star 
Shine  through  the  dim  blue  night, 
I  sometimes  think  perchance  there  are 
Meadows  whereto  it  leads  with  bright 

Unclouded  skies — where  it  is  spring 
The  long  years  through. 
And  in  that  lovely  far-off  blossoming 
I  may  again  find  you. 


47 


UNREST 

Would  that  my  heart  were  like  a  well 

That  I  might  see  down  deep  into  it, 

And  finding  dross  there, 

Might  drag  it  into  the  upper  air, 

Leaving  its  waters 

Limpid  and  clear.  .  .  . 

But  instead 

It  is  like  a  wave 

That  is  struggling  to  be  free, 

And  to  cast  upon  the  strand 

The  burden  it  has  brought 

From  the  deep  and  troubled  sea — 

Sea-weed  that  holds  light 
Like  a  drowned  woman's  hair, 
Or  spars  that  are  broken 
By  the  ocean's  mere  ecstasy. 

Would  that  my  heart  were  like  a  well. 


48 


FLOOD-TIDE 

Your  life  is  like  a  current 

Swift  and  smooth  and  strong, 

Flowing  between  happy  vales  along 

Unconsciously 

Upon  its  highway 

To  the  sea; 

And  shall  I  break 

Upon  it  with  the  torrent 

Of  my  song — 

Heedless  of  right  or  wrong — 

Passionately, 

Driven  by  a  force  more  strong 

Than  death. 

And  stronger  than  the  breath 

Of  life  in  spring 

When  bare  woods  wake 

To  blossoming? 

Your  life  is  like  a  current 
Swift  and  strong — 
And  shall  I  break 
Upon  it  with  the  torrent 
Of  my  song? 

What  though  the  sky 

Be  paling  in  the  west, 

Morning  is  breaking  into  color 

In  my  breast — 

Morning  and  heaven's  awakening: 

49 


And  were  your  heart 

As  cold  and  still 

As  aisles  of  ice 

In  dark  and  lonely  forests, 

Where  pine-trees  shake 

In  winter  winds 

Their  crystal  dice, 

Like  long  lean-fingered  fates 

At  play 

Upon  the  chance  of  life — 

Ah,  were  you  cold  and  still 

As  aisles  of  ice, 

The  crimson  rose  of  dawn 

Within  my  heart 

Would  beat  with  blood-red  throb 

Beneath  your  breast. 

Burning  the  icy  stillness 

Of  your  rest 

Into  ecstasy. 


50 


WINTER  TWILIGHT 

When  winter  twilight  comes  upon  the  city, 

I  see  blue  gentians 

Blooming  beside  deep  pools 

Near  dark  forests, 

And  pink  and  purple  iris 

Flowering  in  June  gardens. 

I  see  great  stars 
One  by  one  in  wide  skies 
Over  pale  deserts, 

With  molten  silver  gleaming  under  tall 
palm-trees. 

I  see  mad  waters  swirling  in  swift  eddies 

Over  sharp  stones 

In  great  swelling  torrents 

Down  steep  mountain-sides  .  .  . 

When  winter  twilight  comes  upon  the  city. 


51 


ANGUISH 

Pain  is  cutting  through  my  heart, 

Like  a  thin  knife, 
With  the  keen  abiding  smart 

Men  call  life. 

Pillowed  cool  in  marble  state, 

Ah,  let  me  sleep, 
And  afar  from  love  or  hate, 

Bury  me  deep. 


52 


UNHEARD 

Like  the  keys 

Of  old  spinets 

Once  given  to  music, 

Or  the  trees 

In  apple-orchards  where  linnets 

Sing  in  cool  wet  April  dawns, 

That  are  now  mute  and  unheard- 

So  is  my  song. 

I  must  be  silent 

As  the  hushed  moment 

When    the  round  sun 

Slips  quietly 

Over  the  rim  of  the  far  horizon 

Into  the  sea — 

Since  you  are  lost 
What  song  is  left  to  me  ? 


53 


LONELINESS 

My  soul  is  sighing  with  the  winds 
That  search  the  winter  plain, 
Remembering  that  poppies  there 
Once  burned  the  golden  grain. 

She  walks  the  furrowed  fields  of  snow 
As  ghostly  clad  as  they, 
And  in  the  stark  and  lonely  night 
Dreams  of  the  sub-robed  day. 

She  peers  into  a  forest  where 
No  live  thing  is  astir, 
And  shivering  she  falls  asleep 
Under  a  frosted  fir. 


54 


FEBRUARY 

Upon  the  black  wet  earth 

I  walk 

While  I  listen 

To  the  talk 

Of  birds  that  breast 

The  icy  wind 

Their  timid  friends 

Have  left  behind — 

And  though 

There  is  no  burgeoning, 

Nor  any  bird 

That  dares  to  sing, 

Gold  willow-wands 

Bespeak  the  spring. 

And  point 

Their  magic  sceptres  to 

A  patch  of  sky 

As  clear  and  blue 

As  any  late 

For-get-me-not 

Half-hidden 

In  a  mossy  spot.  .  .  . 

And  while  the  snow 

Trips  over  hills 

As  lightly  as  a  child 

That  fills 

Her  lap  in  June 

55 


With  daisies, 

Sudden  vivid  green 

Amazes 

Eyes  forlorn 

And  city-spent 

From  seeing  beauty  scorned, 

Or  rent 

By  the  many  ugly  scars 

Wherewith  man 

His  progress  mars: 

Thus  in  the  hovering 

Moment  when 

Mad  swelling  streams 

Divide  the  glen, 

And  winter  cleaves  the  year 

With  spring, 

I  lift  my  surging  heart 

And  sing. 


56 


YOU  AND  I 

You  are  like  the  hoar-frost 
That  comes  in  winter's  train, 
Cut  in  stars  of  crystal 
On  the  window  pane — 

And  I  am  like  a  garden 

Wet  with  summer  rain, 

With  flowers  broken  on  their  stems 

That  will  not  lift  again. 


57 


When  spring  returns 

When  spring  returns 
Upon  the  wind, 
And  blue-birds  dart 
About  the  sky, 
Then  I  shall  sing 
Right  merrily. 

When  willows  change 
Their  gold  to  green, 
And  maple-trees 
With  burning  tips 
Press  silver  clouds 
Like  lovers*  lips. 

And  yellow  dandelions  play 
With  wanton  grasses 
Through  the  day — 

Then  more  glad 

Then  field  or  tree 

My  very  inmost  heart  will  be — 

When  spring  returns 
Upon  the  wind. 


58 


SCOURGE 

Life,  I  would  forget  you  if  I  could, 

For  you  have  cut  and  bruised  me 

On  your  sharp  grey  stones 

When  I  have  dared  to  dash  upon  you 

In  a  sea  of  dreams. 

You  rattle  in  my  mind 

Like  dead  men*s  bones 

Sepulchred  in  a  sea-chest 

That  is  pounded  by  the  surge, 

When  you  lash  me 

With  the  scourge 

Of  memory. 


59 


CONTRAST 

You  are  like  an  arrow 
That  is  straight  and  true — 
I  am  but  a  summer  wind 
That  would  have  shaken  you. 

Curved  the  bow  yet  taut  the  string 
That  drives  you  toward  your  mark- 
While  like  a  bird  on  broken  wing 
I  tremble  in  the  dark. 


60 


MY    THOUGHT 

My  thought  leans  out  to  you 
Far  in  the  still  blue 
Night,  as  a  birch- tree 
Bends  over  a  stream. 

Have  you  forgotten  me, 
Or  can  you  still  see 
My  face  bending  over  you 
Out  of  the  still  blue 
Night,  as  in  dream  ? 

Whisper  your  love  to  me — 
Breathe  it  to  flower  or  tree. 
Rain-drop  or  sunlit  gleam; 
My  thought  bends  over  you- 
Life  is  a  dream. 


61 


A  FOREST 

My  heart  is  like  a  forest, 
With  hidden  recesses 
And  secret  places, 
Where  you  alone 
Have  found  the  way.  .  . 


62 


MIST 

Thought,  why  do  you  burn  me 

As  the  street-lamps  burn  the  mists 

Of  evening 

When  they  press 

Their  hot  red  fingers 

On  the  tear-wet  cheeks  of  day — 

Will  you  not  let  me  forget  ? 

Make  me  secure  in  loneliness, 

And  wrap  me 

With  the  mist 

That  wraps  the  hills, 

That  I  may  be 

As  cold  and  grey. 


63 


SUMMER  STARS 

Love  and  peace  can  never  dwell 

Side  by  side, 
For  peace  is  like  the  snow  that  fell 
At  Christmastide, 

And  love  is  but  a  torch  that  burns 

And  scars — 
Trembling  with  red  and  blue  by  turns 
Like  summer  stars. 


64 


DO  YOU  WONDER 

Do  you  wonder  that  I  sing 
Of  spring's  returning — 
Of  forest  and  of  star 
And  of  all  things  that  are 
Compact  of  beauty 
And  of  yearning? 

For  though  I  may  not  yet  find  peace 

Within  the  strong 

And  uncurbed  passion  of  my  song, 

My  soul  at  least  may  sing 

As  the  waves  sing — 

Or  swing  through  space 

As  planets  swing — 

In  harmony 

With  moonlit  tides  and  spring, 

High-hearted,  free,  alone  and  proud. 


65 


FORGIVEN 

Like  the  touch  of  fur 
Upon  my  cheek 
Is  the  thought  that  your  love 
Is  mine  to  keep. 

My  heart  is  as  warm 
And  soft  in  my  breast 
As  a  ring-dove  asleep 
In  her  soft  warm  nest; 

And  I  am  as  calm 
And  as  full  of  peace 
As  the  midnight  snow 
That  is  falling  like  fleece. 


66 


DOMINOES 

As  up  and  down  the  world  I  go 
I  wear  a  colored  domino, 

And  in  passing  should  you  ask 
Why  it  is  I  wear  a  mask, 

I  would  answer,  **  Would  you  show 
To  others  all  your  joy  or  woe?" 

In  the  world  as  at  a  ball 

Or  midnight  frolic  one  and  all — 

Dressed  in  blue  or  black  or  rose — 
Are  wearing  colored  dominoes. 


67 


PRELUDE 

Spring  tells  her  secrets  to  the  night 
As  she  stands  at  winter's  gate, 

Young  and  trembling,  wan  and  white, 
All  too  prone  to  hesitate 
Now  to  claim  her  royal  state. 

Over  evening  hills  she  tripped 
By  enticing  airs  beguiled, 

Young  and  warm,  and  rosy-lipped, 
Slim  and  naked  as  a  child. 
With  eyes  as  blue  and  wild: 

And  she  begs  of  winter  room 
Where  she  yet  may  rest  unseen, 

While  her  weavers  at  their  loom 
Fashion  her  bright  robe  of  green, 
Flecked  with  threads  of  silver  sheen. 

Spring  tells  her  secret  to  the  night. 
Young  and  trembling,  wan  and  white. 


6S 


WHAT  IS  TIME 

What  is  time — 
What  is  space? 

Time,  the  hours 
That  interlace 
To  hide  from  me 
Your  face. 

What  is  space 
But  a  pathway 
Made  of  steel, 
Where  the  turning 
Of  a  wheel 
Carries  burning 
Word  for  word 
To  a  distant  place. 

What  is  time — 
What  is  space? 


69 


WILD-GEESE 

Lift  up  your  eyes 
And  you  will  see 
Wild-geese  flying 
Over  pale  grey  skies — 
Like  souls  of  the  winds 
Alive  and  free — 
Lift  up  your  eyes 
And  you  will  see. 

Lift  up  your  heart 

To  the  young  spring  night, 

And  she  will  open 

Her  own  to  you — 

Like  a  dark  blue  flower 

Stabbed  with  light — 

Lift  up  your  heart 

To  the  young  spring  night. 


70 


A  CLOSED  BOOK 

Life  lies  between  us 
Like  a  closed  book.  .  .  . 
Yet  its  polished  surface 
Is  satin  to  the  touch, 
And  the  scent  of  its  leather 
As  the  breath  of  roses 
On  a  June  night. 


71 


MARCH  WIND 

Unsheathed  from  its  scabbard 

The  keen  blade  of  the  March  wind 

Is  searching  the  bare  branches 

Of  the  silver  beech-trees. 

Velvet  moss  is  wrapping  the  chill  wet  earth 

As  with  a  blanket. 

The  grey  sky  leans  heavily 

Upon  the  strong  shoulders  of  the  steel-blue  hills. 

Flashing  between  the  mottled  white  and  tan 

Of  tall  sycamores, 

A  turbulent  stream  plunges  madly — 

Cutting  the  pale  thin  green  of  the  meadow. 

Tawny  buds  in  feathery  fountains 

Are  breaking  with  delicate  grace 

The  sharp  outline  and  hard  color 

Of  the  steep  ridges.  .  .  . 

What  is  there  in  the  austere  beauty 

Of  the  young  spring — 

Cold  and  pure  and  expectant — 

That  tears  me  with  an  agony  of  aching, 

And  sends  my  heart  searching 

With  the  hunger  of  the  March  wind.? 


72 


AT  TIMES 

At  times  it  is  a  lonely  chord — 
A  strange  and  lovely  haunting  word, 
Or  flash  of  color  that  may  bring 
You  back  as  if  on  level  wing. 

Again  a  moon  that  cleaves  the  dark 
May  serve  as  your  returning  bark — 
For  with  all  sudden  quick  delight 
You  come  to  me  by  day  or  night. 


73 


DAFFODILS 

Daffodils  are  knocking 
At  spring's  closed  door, 
Impatient  of  their  waiting 
To  carpet  her  floor. 

Rude  winds  of  winter, 
Stop  your  rough  blowing. 
And  give  the  yellow  daffodils 
Their  spring  showing. 

Woo  them  April  sunshine — 
Kiss  them  silver  rain — 
Welcome  all  their  blossoming 
To  the  earth  again. 


74 


WIZARDRY 

Love  came  to  me  out  of  the  shadow 
On  hushed  and  stealthy  feet, 
But  his  face  was  like  the  morning, 
And  his  eyes  were  wild  and  sweet. 

He  led  me  across  the  meadows, 
And  over  the  silver  streams. 
Into  a  place  of  silent  stars 
And  quiet  dreams. 

He  gave  me  no  food  or  raiment, 
Nor  wreaths  to  bind  my  hair, 
But  he  wove  thin  veils  of  amethyst 
My  spirit  might  wear. 

He  pressed  a  lute  into  my  hands. 
And  bade  me  then  to  sing — 
But  in  that  place  of  silence 
I  waited  listening. 

I  heard  the  noiseless  footprints 
That  fall  upon  new  snow, 
And  even  the  sigh  of  April 
When  blossoms  blow.  .  .  . 

Love  came  to  me  out  of  the  shadow 
On  hushed  and  stealthy  feet, 
But  his  face  was  like  the  morning. 
And  his  eyes  were  wild  and  sweet. 


75 


THE  CALL 

I  shall  go  out 
To  meet  the  spring 
Where  secret  woods 
Are  blossoming, 
And  turn  my  back 
On  life  and  duty, 
That  I  may  keep 
My  tryst  with  beauty. 

My  tryst  with  beauty 

I  must  keep, 

To  save  my  sluggard  soul 

From  sleep. 

Lest  I  should  fail 

To  mark  each  thing 

That  trembles  in 

The  lap  of  spring. 

Then  in  the  lap  of  spring 

I'll  lie. 

While  small  birds  flit 

About  the  sky. 

And  listen  to 

Their  heralding. 

With  pagan  joy. 

The  wild  sweet  spring. 

I  shall  go  out 
To  meet  the  spring 
Where  secret  woods 
Are  blossoming. 


76 


APRIL 

I — Pursuit 

I  have  followed  you 
Through  the  long  year, 
April, 

To  find  you  here 
In  this  beech-wood. 
With  your  green  kirtle 
Spread  on  the  hillside, 
While  you  dip 
Into  a  silver  stream. 

Must  you  ever  ensnare  me 

With  your  shy  girlhood. 

And  are  you  not  fair  enough 

Without  tangling  your  tawny  hair  with  violets? 

Why  do  you  still 

Elude  me 

When  I  seek  to  enfold  you. 

Turning  your  face  northward  as  you  trip 

At  twilight 

Over  a  misty  hill? 

II — After  Rain 

Light  is  tremulous  again 

After  the  fresh  spring  rain, 

While  numberless  little  secret  buds, 


77 


Embroidered  in  silvery  gauze 
And  infinitely  whorled, 
Are  breaking  into  fragrance. 

The  passionate  purple  stain 
Of  judas-trees 
Protests  in  vain 
Against  the  whiteness — 
The  inviolate  bloom — 
Of  dogwood. 

The  hills  are  splashed  with  golden  broom, 

And  blue  violets  are  wedded  to  pale  crocuses 

In  the  cool  wet  April  grass, 

While  in  the  windless  air 

A  thrush  sings 

Of  bridals  and  of  blossomings. 

Can  this  be  Eden  here. 
With  Eve  hidden 

Under  some  sweet-scented  rain-drenched  apple- 
bough  ? 

For  but  a  moment  now  agone 

I  marvelled  to  see 

A  sleek  and  indolent  serpent — 

Subtle,  malevolent — 

Pass  beside  me. 

Gliding  warily  through  tall  grass. 

78 


Ill — Purple 

Strip  that  purple  scarf  off,  April, 

That  you  wind  so  tightly  round  my  heart. 

Is  it  not  enough  that  you  come  to  us 

Trailing  your  garments  of  green  and  silver — 

Tearing  our  hearts  into  shreds 

With  your  young  beauty? 

Why  must  you  wound  us 

With  the  color  of  grapes 

That  belong  to  your  sister,  autumn? 

Strip  that  purple  scarf  off,  April. 

IV — I  Have  Not  Lost  You 

I  have  not  lost  you  yet, 

April, 

For  you  are  still  drawing  your  thin  veils 

Around  your  bare  young  limbs, 

To  shield  them 

From  the  cold  air. 

Dogwood  is  weaving  pearls 

Into  your  bright  hair, 

While  you  tread  carelessly  upon  violets, 

Lifting  your  proud  head  into  the  skies — 

And  I  hear  music 

Still  trembling  on  your  lip  in  dreams 

In  silver  harmonies 

Of  gurgling  streams.  .  .  . 

I  have  not  lost  you  yet, 
April. 

79 


SPRING  VOICES 

Ole  Mr.  Frog  got  a  mighty  fine  note — 

Mr.  Whip-poor-will  sing  wid  a  sob  in  his  throat — 

But  it  gives  me  fear  in  de  dark  to  hear 

Mr.  Owl  holler  out,  "  Who-o-o,  who-o-o,  who-o-o  ?" 

An'  I  say,  "Mr.  Owl,  howdy  you  do.?" 

But  he  holler  out  again 

Jus*  "Who-o-o,  who-o-o,  who-o-o,?" 

An*  I  say  right  quick, 

*''Jim  Jones  an  his  wife 
Wuz  at  my  house  las'  nighty 
An'  Gord  knows  who-all 
Wuz  at  my  house  las'  night." 

Mr.  Frog  call  out  from  de  edge  o'  de  pond — 

Mr.  Whip-poor-will,  he  mighty  soon  to  respond — 

But  it  gives  me  fear  in  de  dark  to  hear 

Mr.  Owl  holler  out,  **  Who-o-o,  who-o-o,  who-o-o  ?" 

An*  I  say,  "Mr.  Owl,  its  me  an'  you," 

But   he   holler   out   again,    "Who-o-o,    who-o-o, 

who-o-o?" 
An*  I  say  right  quick, 

"y/w  Jones  an^  his  wife 
Wuz  at  my  house  las'  nighty 
An*  Gord  knows  who-all 
Wuz  at  my  house  las'  night." 

*  This  refrain  is  a  fragment  of  a  negro  folk-song 
given  to  the  author  by  an  old  slave,  who  recalled 
having  heard  it  sung  in  her  youth  on  a  Virginian 
plantation. 

80 


An'  Mr.  Frog  he  say  dat  he  don'  know, 

An*  Mr.  Whip-poor-will  holler,  "Dat  ain'  so." 

But  it  gives  me  fear  in  de  dark  to  hear 

Mr.  Owl  holler  out,  "  Who-o-o,  who-o-o,  who-o-o?' 

An'  I  say,  "Mr.  Owl,  t'ain'  nobody  but  you," 

An'  den  I  sneeze,  "  Ker-ketch-er-koo ! " 

An'  I  run  right  quick,  'cause 

Jim  Jones  an*  his  wife 
Wuz  at  my  house  las'  nighty 
An  Gord  knows  who-all 
Wuz  at  my  house  las'  nights 


81 


WORDS  ARE  TOO  TATTERED 

Words  are  too  tattered  and  thin 
To  tell  my  love  for  you — 

I  could  paint  it  in  April  sunsets 

Caught  in  a  mesh  of  silver  laces 

In  the  boughs  of  young  trees, 

Or  in  gardens  that  are  stained  with  poppies. 

I  could  sing  it  in  the  rhythm  of  high  seas 

Breaking  upon  sounding  beaches, 

Or  be  silent  as  snow 

That  is  softer  than  fleece — 

Words  are  too  tattered  and  thin 
To  tell  my  love  for  you. 


82 


SEARCH 

I  have  hunted  you  down  the  garden-path 
Out  in  the  soft  spring  rain, 
And  under. the  lovely  starlit  sky 
I  have  looked  for  you  long  in  vain. 

But  I  know  that  you  are  as  far  from  me 
As  a  star  at  the  heaven's  height, 
That  is  fixed  forever  immovably 
In  the  changing  tides  of  night. 


83 


GIVING 

I  gave  to  him  a  blood-red  rose 
But  he  gave  it  back  to  me — 
It  pierced  my  finger  with  its  thorn 
Till  I  wept  bitterly. 

I  gave  to  him  a  white  rose — 
As  white  as  it  was  fair — 
He  hid  it  from  me  in  his  heart. 
But  I  have  found  it  there. 


84 


GHOSTS 

I  am  not  the  I  you  think  I  am — 

Nor  you  the  you. 

We  marked  the  flight  with  the  naked  eye 

Of  a  bird  that  flew 

Across  the  sky, 

But  not  its  hue — 

We  heard  it  cry — 

Ah,  that  is  true, 

But  it  sang  no  song  as  it  passed  us  by 

To  sparkle  down  the  blue; 

Its  color  and  flame  we  never  knew.  .  .  . 

I  am  not  the   I  you  think  I  am — 

Nor  you  the  you. 


85 


MIRRORS 

I 

Alone  as  a  child  in  tall  grasses 

Under  mimosas  blossoming, 

Languorous  from  their  sweet  scent — 

As  of  peaches  grown  ripe  in  the  sun — 

With  only  a  cat-bird's  complaint 

Piercing  the  midsummer  silence, 

Or  the  wiry  monotonous  chanting  of  jar-fiies, 

I  lived  in  a  golden  web  of  dreams. 

With  magic  to  touch  all  my  thought 

With  light  and  the  hot  breath  of  noon. 

II 

Again  indoors  from  a  window 

I  gazed  at  the  buff-coated  green 

Of  the  sumptuous  leaves  of  magnolias, 

With  their  soft  and  velvety  petals 

Spilling  pale  fragrance  from  chalices 

Of  lovely  and  waxen  white  bloom; 

Or  through  the  shimmering  veils  of  heat 

At  the  yellowing  fields  of  grain, 

Where  color  was  wont  to  run  riot 

In  a  tangle  of  poppies  and  larkspur. 

Ill 

At  times  on  the  edge  of  old  forests 
I  shared  in  the  cool  luscious  melons, 
Pink  at  their  hearts  as  crepe-myrtles, 

86 


That  were  offered  on  tables  of  stone — 
Not  by  Druidical  priests, 
But  by  laughing  and  merry  sweet  girls 
To  youths  beguiled  by  their  beauty. 


IV 


Then  I  can  remember  all  my  savage  joy 

When  the  thunder  pealed 

And  the  lightning  stunned, 

And  rivers  of  rain  were  pouring 

In  passionate  pelting  storm, 

And  I  marvelled  to  see 

The  iron-hooped  barrels  of  water 

Caught  from  my  dreamland  the  clouds. 


There  were  roses  at  sunset  in  gardens 
Afterwards,  brimming  with  rain-drops 
And  sweetness,  dropping  their  petals 
Like  carpets  for  fairies  to  dance  on. 


VI 


But  drawing  the  heart  of  a  child 

More  than  beauty  was  the  cow-pen  at  twilight 

With  its  strong  warm  smell  of  the  stalls, 

And  the  black  women  milking  the  udders 

That  streamed  with  their  plentiful  whiteness; 

Or  the  dairy  as  deep  as  a  dungeon 

87 


And  dank  with  the  stain  of  stone  walls, 
Where  dusky  girls  balancing  milk-pails 
Were  lithe  as  young  caryatides 
Bearing  the  weight  of  carved  capitals; 
Or  pouring  out  cream  as  if  nectar, 
Where  butter  was  blooming  like  flowers 
In  rose-patted  circles  of  gold. 

VII 

Then  evening  fell  deep  in  the  low-grounds 

By  willow-grown  banks  of  the  river — 

Tawny  and  sluggish  and  baflling — 

Gliding  between  the  tall  rows 

Of  corn  in  voluptuous  beauty, 

While  frogs  sang  loudly  in  chorus 

In  the  rank  and  weed-scented  dusk 

To  the  far-away  plantation  harmony 

Of  a  negro  alone  in  the  twilight, 

Returning  from  work  at  the  end  of 

His  long  and  arduous  day, 

Where  under  the  pointed  black  cedars 

Many  a  comrade  lay  sleeping — 

There  in  the  shadows  of  evening — 

In  graves  that  would  ever  be  nameless. 

VIII 

Yet  fairest  of  all  was  the  moonlight 
From  under  the  tall  Gothic  arches. 
With  their  slender  columns  of  marble 

88 


Tripp'ed  like  birch-boles  in  forests; 
Moonlight  falling  on  roadways 
Winding  and  white  under  oak-trees 
Or  evergreens — cedars  of  Lebanon — 
Black  in  the  summer-night  shadows, 
While  valleys  were  pale  with  the  mystical 
Maze  that  the  moon  was  still  weaving, 
Trailing  her  silvery  gauze, 
And  drenching  the  world  with  her  beauty. 

I  lived  in  a  crystal  globe  of  dreams, 
With  magic  to  touch  all  my  thought. 


89 


THE  SEA 

I — Downs 

I  would  have  you  walk  with  me 
Over  the  green  downs  to  the  sea; 
I  would  wait  and  watch  with  you 
The  white  sails  flit  across  the  blue; 
I  would  see  the  young  gulls  flying, 
And  my  heart  would  be  replying 
To  their  freedom  and  their  ecstasy 
Because  you  were  alone  with  me. 

I  would  hear  the  cattle  lowing 
And  the  south-wind  softly  blowing; 
I  would  watch  the  evening  sky 
Clothe  herself  in  majesty; 
I  would  hear  the  doves'  faint  cooing 
In  their  plaintive  twilight  wooing — 
As  in  old  dead  days  of  Greece, 
By  her  beating  azure  seas. 

II — Foreboding 

Evening  is  slowly  creeping  across  the  sea; 

The  waiting  beach 

Receives  into  her  lap 

The  little  tired  home-returning  waves; 

The  golden  rocks  are  barnacled  with  infinite  life; 

Sea-weed  is  strewn  untidily  upon  the  sand; 

So  was  it  yesterday  and  yesterday — 

So  will  it  be  tomorrow 

When  sorrow 

And  I  are  far  awav. 

90 


Ill — Like  Ships 

Hearts  are  like  ships 
Pulling  at  the  ropes 
That  hold  them 
To  their  moorings — 
Straining  to  be  free. 

IV — Rhythm 

Why  should  I  go  alone  beside  the  sea 

In  search  of  peace — 

Where  sound  may  never  cease — 

But  that  I  feel  my  heritage  to  be 

Part  of  her  age-long  rhythm  and  her  unity; 

And  that  she  by  right  of  her  imperious  word 

May  still  the  voices  that  are  stirred 

Deep  in  my  soul  continually, 

Making  them  one 

With  her  great  diapason 

Of  infinite  harmony.  .  .  . 

V — A  Moment 

W^hite  cloud,  white  foam 

And  dark  blue  sea; 

Grey-veined  sand 

The  tide  leaves 

When  it  drifts; 

Winds  that  shift  suddenly 

Blowing  strong  and  free — 


91 


A  child  with  lips 

As  scarlet  as  a  marsh-lily 

Dipped  in  white  spray, 

And  eyes  as  blue 

As  lapis-lazuli. 

VI — Mooring 

O  ship  now  anchored  in  light 
With  all  of  your  voyaging  done, 
Calm  on  a  grey-blue  sea 
Under  a  copper  sun. 
And  sails  as  closely  furled 
As  the  bright  petals  upcurled 
Of  a  sleeping  flower — 
Within  this  quiet  hour 
You  whisper  rest 
To  all  who  are  oppressed 
With  the  unquenchable  fire 
Of  infinite  desire.  .  .  . 

VII — The  Beach 

When  I  go  out  alone 

On  the  beach 

In  the  morning, 

I  see  cleanliness,  stript  and  naked, 

Lying  on  the  firm  wet  sand. 

And  light  glittering 

With  ten  thousand  swords 

Flashing  in  cross-play. 

92 


And  when  I  watch  the  waves  withdrawing — 

Trailing  their  veils  of  foam  . 

Like  brides  of  the  sea — 

In  shining  mirrors 

I  find  Nausicaa, 

Shell-pink  and  white. 

With  gold  hair  wind-blown, 

Poised  and  curved  like  a  lily-flower. 

Spreading  her  garments  to  dry 

In  the  quivering  path  of  the  sun. 

VIII — Island  Fog 


The  fog  is  drifting  slowly 

From  the  sea. 

While  on  my  ear  there  falls 

The  sound  of  bell-buoys 

Tolling  mournfully — 

Now  soft,  now  loud — 

As  unto  souls 

Of  mariners  lost  at  sea; 

Whose  bodies  lie 

Upon  the  sea's  cold  bed, 

Wrapped  from  head 

To  foot  each  in  a  shroud 

Of  sea-moss 

Green  and  pink 

As  scale  and  flesh 

Of  mermaids. 

Who  forever  dwell 


93 


In  jewelled  caverns 

Of  the  deep, 

And  wait  to  greet 

The  ships  that  sink — 

To  dive  within  their  hold 

For  precious  stones 

And  coin  of  treasured  gold.  .  .  , 

And  as  the  bell-buoy 

Tolls  and  tolls, 

I  seem  to  see 

The  souls 

Of  mariners 

Clothed  in  mystery, 

Coming  from  phantom  ships 

New-beached  upon  the  sand 

Of  their  once  familiar  island — 

With  silent  lips, 

Yet  yearning  to  repeat 

Their  tragic  history — 

Haunting  deep  wells 

Of  fragrance  in  the  island  dells, 

Near  lonely  cottages 

Where  women  weep 

Upon  their  knees. 

While  children  as  they  hearken 

To  the  bell. 

Bow  their  heads  together. 

And  whisper  to  each  other 

The  sad  sea-tales 

Their  fathers  used  to  tell.  .  .  . 


94 


The  fog  is  drifting  slowly 
From  the  sea, 
While  on  my  ear  there  falls 
The  sound  of  bell-buoys 
Tolling  mournfully. 


95 


SONNETS 

I 

I  walked  serenely  over  trodden  ways, 

Warmed   by   kind   suns   and   soothed    by   quiet 

moons, 
Like  one  in  happy  trance  who  often  swoons 
With  pure  contentment  in  the  drowsy  days; 
Fragile  as  wind-flowers  trembling  in  a  maze 
Of  dreams,  the  hours  achieved,  and  distant  noons. 
Fainter  than  through  lake-mist,  the  cry  of  loons. 
Or  siren-calls  from  ships  on  lonely  bays. 

Then  out  of  some  remote  empyrean  plane 

One  lifted  me  to  heaven  and  high  stars. 

Yet  borne  by  wings  too  trammelled  to  maintain 

That  giddy  place  beyond  all  mortal  bars, 

Far  down  the  night  I  fell  to  earth  again. 

Broken  and  bruised  and  wounded  with  deep  scars. 


II 


When  I  am  with  you  I  have  learned  to  skim 
Over  life's  surface:  there  I  am  bound 
By  trivial  rules  men  make  that  hedge  me  round 
And  voices  whispering  within  the  rim 
Of  my  own  soul's  horizon;  in  that  dim 
Demesne  even  as  I  falter  I  have  found 
Reason  and  will  true  potentates  are  crowned. 
Though  bare  of  breast,  naked  and  lean  of  limb. 

96 


But  in  a  realm  apart  from  all  of  these, 
Where  spirit  soon  with  spirit  dares  to  speak, 
Flame  leaps  to  flame  in  meeting  eyes;  the  worth 
Of  truth  then  proves  its  ancient  power  to  break 
Each  barrier,  making  us  one  with  hills  and  seas 
And  stars,  and  all  the  old  beauty  of  the  earth. 


Ill 


I  weigh  my  heart  in  scales  of  right  and  wrong, 
Like  merchandise:  for  as  the  wind  drives  bloom 
In  autumn  sunlight  through  an  infinite  room 
Of  clear  blue  space,  you  drive  my  thoughts  along 
The  highways  of  the  mind  with  might  as  strong, 
Dispelling  every  questioning  cloud  of  gloom 
And  haunting  fear  of  far  impending  doom. 
Scattering  my  words  like  petals  into  song. 

Yet  in  my  deepest  consciousness  I  know, 
White  are  the  flowers  of  love  that  I  now  bring 
To  you — white  as  a  mantle  of  new  snow 
Or  blossoms  from  the  altars  of  young  spring; 
Fair  as  the  altar-bread  to  one  who  sips 
Red  sacramental  wine  with  trembling  lips. 


IV 


Wounded  with  beauty  in  this  quiet  hour 
Beside  a  limpid  pool  I  muse  alone — 
No  twilight  bell  could  bring  to  me  the  tone 
Of  your  clear  voice  more  silverly,  with  a  dower 

97 


Of  roses  prodigal  of  scent  and  flower 
As  those  in  Persian  gardens  long  since  blown, 
And  yet  like  spectres  faded  woes  are  prone 
To  haunt  the  summer  dusk  with  latent  power. 

But  truth  that  stalks  beside  me  stark  and  bold 
Taunts  me  with  sorrow  that  is  sharp  and  new 
As  morning,  cutting  like  frost  in  cold 
December:  the  years  beyond  are  few — 
Futile  the  rose  of  love  I  give  to  you — 
Separate  in  doom,  apart  we  must  grow  old. 


98 


A  VALLEY 

Life  is  a  lonely  valley 
Where  beauty  walks  with  tears 
Within  a  hush  of  silence 
Like  that  of  quiet  spheres — 

Until  she  sings  in  rushes, 
Wind-stirred  beside  a  stream, 
Yielding  her  soul  to  music 
Born  of  a  golden  dream. 


99 


SUMMER  NIGHT 

As  I  came  through  that  lane  of  honeysuckle 

In  the  summer  night 

Where  no  sound  stirred, 

Suddenly 

I  thought  I  heard 

A  hundred  voices  calling  your  name 

Through  all  the  sweet,  warm  dark — 

Burning  it  into  my  brain  and  heart — 

Can  it  be 

That  honeysuckle 

Has  tongues  of  flame  ? 


100 


WHAT  IS  SPRING 

What  is  spring  to  me 
But  you? 

What  is  summer — 
What  is  autumn — 
What  is  winter? 

You  sing  to  me 
In  every  note 
From  every  misty  tree 
In  April; 

And  when  moonHght  presses 
Upon  the  heart  of  a  rose 
In  a  June  garden, 
It  quivers  like  my  own 
When  you  are  near. 

It  is  your  voice 
That  I  hear 
When  autumn 
Treads  out  color 
As  from  a  winepress; 

And  when  snow 

Muffles  sound 

With  a  silence 

That  can  be  heard. 

It  is  your  unspoken  word. 

101 


What  is  spring  to  me 
But  you? 

What  is  summer — 
What  is  autumn — 
What  is  winter? 


102 


ASPIRATION 

With  stars  I  climb 
The  lonely  night — 

I  ride  the  sun 

To  the  morning's  height. 

I  search  the  gardens 

Of  the  sea 
For  flowers  that  bloom 

Continually. 

I  talk  to  the  winds 

From  the  ocean-plain — 
I  hear  the  secrets 

Of  April  rain : 

But  joy  of  joys — 

I  strive  as  I  can 
To  lose  myself 

In  the  heart  of  man. 


103 


THORNS 

What  are  these  sharp  thorns 

That  you  give  to  me,  Beauty  ? 

Will  you  not  let  me  wear  your  purple  flowers 

Without  pain  ? 

Would  you  have  me  return  again 

To  the  dusty  street 

Of  life, 

With  noise  insistent  and  loud, 

To  be  jostled  once  more  by  the  crowd — 

I  who  have  lain 

At  your  feet 

By  pools 

That  are  still  and  deep? 

It  is  your  voice  that  cools 

My  hot  thirst. 

And  leads  me  to  choose 

Even  the  pain 

Of  wounds  that  will  not  heal 

Rather  than  feel 

I  may  lose  you 

Out  of  my  life  again.  .  .  . 

Ah,  give  me  your  sharp  thorns,  Beauty. 


104 


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